The Moonlit Sonata
by Eyebrows2
Summary: What is rustling in the secret wardrobe on 221B's landing? And what can be got out of Holmes with sufficient flattery? One shot, and mini-sequel to the Doctor's Daughter. Please read and review!


_**This is a brief sequel to The Doctor's Daughter, although it sort of makes sense on its own.**_

**The Moonlit Sonata**

I was returning to Baker Street rather late one night, having agreed to assist an old friend and patient with a recurrent malady.

As I passed the wardrobe on the landing concealing the entrance to 219, I heard a slight scuffling sound within it. I froze. Since my small daughter, now three years old, has been in secret residence next door, I can be understandably nervous on her behalf, considering the nature of my work with Holmes.

Quietly, I pushed down the little disk that released the handle, and turned the latch. As the door swung gently outward, it stuck against something soft, and, as I peered around to see what it could be, a small figure in white uncurled itself from the quilt she was snuggled up in inside the corresponding wardrobe.

My first instinct would have been to be alarmed, but as the sleepy eyes widened at the sight of me, and then showed guilty contrition, to a comical degree, I realised there was no need.

"Elsie? What are you doing there, young lady?"

I stepped through the door, and scooped her up. She hung her head, twirling her fingers around her straw-coloured plait, her face flushed, but there was a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, as she realised I was not angry yet.

"I was listening to the pretty music, and I fell asleep, Daddy," she confessed, sheepishly.

"You dragged your nice quilt out here, and were listening to music in this dusty wardrobe after you should have been tucked up in bed?"

"Yes," she answered brightly, pleased to find me so quick to catch on.

"And which music was this, you minx?"

"It comes from there." She pointed her finger across the landing, and I smiled as I realised what she must mean, as well as the implication that she must have listened to it regularly.

"Oho, does it now. Well, perhaps we had better go and find it then," I suggested, abandoning all attempts at playing the stern upstanding patriarch, as I remember the few magical times in my own childhood when I had been allowed out of bed in the middle of the night when all was dark and still.

I carried my small burden, wrapped in her quilt, and fidgeting with the excitement of her unexpected treat, into the sitting room of 221B. Holmes was sitting pasting items into his commonplace book, and he looked up as I entered, closing the cover as he saw Elsie.

"Well, hello Miss Watson. What leads you to be awake at this hour?"

"You do, Holmes, or at least so I believe. Elsie tells me she has been sitting in the wardrobe listening to music, which is incidentally where I just found her, fast asleep."

Now it was Holmes turn to look sheepish, and he rose from his chair to cross over us. He tugged gently on one of Elsie's plaits, then tickled her nose with the end of it, making her giggle, as he whispered to her;

"I think I am in disgrace with your father, Elsie. Don't tell him, whatever you do!" My daughter giggled again, and I attempted to keep a straight face as I scolded.

"Holmes! You are a bad influence on the child."

"Indubitably," answered he, with a wink in her direction. He picked up his violin, paused in thought for a moment, then began to play a soft little piece I vaguely recognised.

To my astonishment, I felt my daughter freeze, then begin to quiver. Her eyes had widened like saucers, and her mouth was open in a small "oo". Holmes faltered and stared at her rapt expression, then put his heart into it.

Elsie was transfixed. In other respects, she was a perfect normal, if somewhat precocious, three year old child, with the attention span of a canary. However, as I moved to sit on the sofa, and Holmes continued softly playing, she barely moved a muscle. The music was profoundly affecting her in some way.

Eventually, Holmes stopped, and Elsie seemed to come out of a trace. She clapped enthusiastically. Then her eyes fixed on the violin, almost hungrily.

"Please may I try it?"

I started to tell her she was too small, expecting Holmes to recoil at the very notion of entrusting his precious Stradivarius to a three year old, but he surprised me.

"You must wash your hands first before you touch it. It is too big for you, so you will not be able to play it properly, but you may have a go."

She beamed, struggled clear of my arms, and skipped to the bathroom, coming back with her nightdress cuffs wet, and holding out her small hands for inspection.

Holmes inspected them solemnly. "Very good. Now, roll your sleeves up. Tuck the violin under your chin. Hold the bow like this." He positioned her fingers on the bow, which was almost as tall as she was. "Now, draw the bow gently along the strings."

The violin gave a horrible, screeching sound, and Elsie's response was dramatic. She almost dropped both instrument and bow, her face flushed, her eyes filled with tears, and her chin began to wobble dangerously, as suddenly her whole expression spoke of excruciating disappointment. I suddenly felt extraordinarily sorry for her, and Holmes must have felt the same way, for her put his arms around her from behind, and murmured in her ear.

"There, there. It's not your fault. It's very hard to play a violin at first, it takes a long time to get good. Let me help you."

I watched, entranced, as he held both her hands in his, resting his chin upon the top of her head, as if she were the violin, and gently drawing her bow hand across the strings, loosing a simple, gentle yet pretty melody. My daughter's eyes regained their delighted sparkle. As he released her, she raised her chin and fluttered her eyelashes beseechingly.

"Please, will you play another one, Holmes?" (I thoroughly disparage this term of address from a small child, but Holmes had rejected the appellation "Uncle", and any use of his Christian name with hostility, and declared "Mr" to be too formal, so "Holmes" he has remained).

"If you will return to your bed, where you should have been all along, I will play you one last tune. But only if you close your eyes." For a moment, she evidently considered prevarication or rebellion, but she was sufficiently acquainted with Holmes to know it was useless, so she abandoned her pout, and struck a bargain she knew would be successful.

"I shall if Daddy comes too. He is tired, and the beautiful tune will make him feel better," she announced bossily, taking both our hands, and swinging upon them as she led us across the landing.

"Females!" grinned Holmes at me, obeying the small tyrant, and helping me give her a bigger swing.

I tucked Elsie back into bed and kissed her.

Holmes lifted his bow, and softly played a simple lullaby. It seemed successful, as her eyes fluttered closed. He smiled at me, and quietly left the room. I stayed, intending to watch my daughter for a short while.

Without opening her eyes, she whispered, "I like music, Daddy. Did Mummy like it too?"

"Yes. Yes, she did, very much," I answered, stroking the soft hair, and clearing a slight constriction in my throat. "She sang beautifully."

"I can sing too."

"I know you can - beuatifully. But now is not the time for singing; it is time for you to go to sleep."

"Alright. Goodnight, Daddy."

"Goodnight, my sweet."

...

I have said before that Holmes is susceptible to flattery, and even if it came from a three-year old, he was not likely to miss the unusual look of reverence that crossed Elsie's face at the sound of music; his music in particular. However, I had not expected his next step.

I was seated with Elsie and little Sam, who had quite become part of the family since Ruth his mother had made herself so indispensible as Elsie's Nanny. We were playing a thoroughly boring game of Ludo, and I was beginning to think about my dinner, when the door swung open and Holmes entered through the wardrobe. He had two packages under his arm.

"Hallo, all. I have a gift for each of you two," he said to the children.

Both sets of eyes lit up greedily.

"But it is not our birthdays," said Elsie, dubiously, obviously worried the present would be taken away when Holmes realised his mistake.

"I realise that. But you have both been good recently. Sam, this is for you. Perhaps you would like to play with it in the garden." He held out a rather garish cock-horse, and Sam's face lit up with delight. He stammered his thank-yous, then hammered his way down the stairs, shouting for his mother.

I looked at Holmes, nonplussed. I believe we both felt sympathetic affection for Ruth and her son, who had come to me during a very difficult time for myself and herself, but this was unprecedented. He smiled, enigmatically, as he handed a parcel wrapped in brown paper to Elsie.

"This is for you, child."

She thanked him very sweetly, then excitedly attacked the wrapping, opening the box within, to reveal a miniature violin. Her mouth dropped open, and she wordlessly picked it up. It was the perfect size for her. She placed it carefully back down, and her face became very, very red. Suddenly, it scrumpled up, and she burst into tears, flinging herself into my arms, as Holmes stared, appalled.

"It's a violin, Daddy! My very own violin!" she sobbed.

"What's the matter with her, Watson? Doesn't she like it? What have I done?"

"It's fine, Holmes," I chuckled, stroking Elsie's hair as she nuzzled my shoulder. "She's just a bit overwhelmed. She is only three, after all. A very _little girl_." I felt Elsie starting to stiffen at my words, and grinned. "You like your violin, don't you, Els?"

"I LOVE IT!" she wailed, then launched herself at Holmes, who was evidently completely disorientated by the whole affair. "Thank you, H-Holmes f-for my v-v-violin!"

"You're very welcome, Miss. But don't you think you should stop crying now?"

She hiccupped and sniffed determinedly. I rubbed my handkerchief across her face, and instructed her to blow her nose. She walked to the washstand in the corner of the room, and washed her hands. Still very pink, she crossed to the violin, and picked it up very, very delicately.

She then settled the rest under her chin, picked up the bow and began, very carefully, to play. Holmes must have given her the odd lesson, and I was most impressed, as the tune was immediately identifiable.

"Well done, Elsie!" I applauded enthusiastically as she finished, also giving a warm look towards a puffed-up Holmes. "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star I believe?"

She stared at me indignantly. "Baa baa black sheep, Daddy!"

"Of course, of course, silly Daddy," I apologised contritely.

Ruth then entered the room, to thank Holmes for Sam's hobby horse, and Elsie exultantly showed her the violin.

"Yes, I heard you playing. Very good, Miss Elsie. That _was_ kind of Mr Holmes." Ruth looked at Holmes with a peculiar woodenness of expression which I had seen before on the face of Mrs Hudson; Holmes remained oblivious, but I think I deduced its source.

"Elsie had best have the room at the _very top_ of the house for her music practice," I said hastily, and Ruth gave me a grateful look.

....................

_Thought it was time to dust little Elsie off a little. Also, I always find the idea of buying noisy toys for small children who are not your own consistently entertaining! Try it, get your niece/nephew etc a descant recorder..._

_Reviews always appreciated._


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